Mr Holmes
by Zanchev
Summary: After the wizard war, Harry Potter is once again sacrificed for the public's peace of mind, and is locked away in Azkaban on his eighteenth birthday. Four years later, he is visited by the British Government and offered freedom in exchange for his unique views and skills. Armed with his new identity, Harry is released into Muggle London and pointed towards the nearest corpse.
1. Prologue

**Obligatory Disclaimer**

**I, Jerri Zanchev, hereby state that I do not own Harry Potter, or BBC Sherlock, nor any characters, plot points, settings, and so on that are found within and/or are immediately recognisable from the aforementioned franchises. Any and all recognisable factors of this work of fiction have been borrowed from BBC and JK Rowling for the purposes of entertainment, and not for and personal/monetary gain.**

***xXx***

**~Prologue~**

The black umbrella twirled between long fingers in the near darkness, almost thwacking one of the prison guards in the back of the head as he fumbled with keys. The other guard smothered a shocked laugh, and the umbrella stilled. Mycroft Holmes raised an eyebrow - all the magic in the world and the wizard prison still needed keys?

"The wards on the doors block all magic; we need the keys to access the high security cases," the fumbling guard muttered in response to Mycroft's huff. The muggle checked a pocket watch and shifted slowly, impatience oozing from every perfectly maintained pore. The door finally creaked open, and both guards immediately ducked inside - past the wards, Mycroft assumed - and shouted a spell.

Mycroft watched the two faintly flickering silver guardians blankly. He knew all about magic, and the magical world. He quietly wondered how - as a muggle and a suspected sociopath - the dementors would affect him. As he followed the guards, he silently pondered how they had affected the prisoner he was going to meet.

Mycroft walked briskly, ignoring the moans and groping hands coming from the cells on either side. The guards flinched and sneered, but led him quickly to the end of the hall. The highest security cell in the highest security wing of the highest security prison. Mycroft smiled briefly. This particular specimen seemed to always do things in threes.

The guard with the keys shook with nerves as he unlocked the cell. Mycroft stepped neatly around the man and walked into the tiny room. He didn't react as the door clicked and locked behind him, eyes only for the man before him.

He was barely out of boyhood, very tall and worryingly thin. Thick dark hair lay matted down to his shoulders, and his cheekbones jutted out harshly. His frail looking body was contrasted by his upright posture and sharp eyes that took in Mycroft's every movement from his seat at the far wall.

"Good day, Mr -"

"Oh, day, is it? That's nice. Sunny, judging by the faded lint on the shoulders of your coat. This of course begs the question; why have you got an umbrella? But you look like a creature of habit and preparation, so that's boring. I'm so very bored. Why are you here?"

Mycroft blinked in surprise, then smiled. It seemed the man's insight and intuition had not fallen from its legendary status. The man sniffed and shifted, bringing Mycroft's attention back to him. He nodded his agreement to the prisoner's statement, and wrinkled his nose at the savagely pleased grin he got in return.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I am a representative of -"

"Lying. You're not a lackey. I know lackeys. You're a leader, in charge, but not a General. No... Oh! You're a yucky politician, all fake smiles and fake promises and fake hair. How's Her Majesty?"

Mycroft paused. How did he...?

"Dog hairs. Corgi. On your trousers. Smell of nicotine, not on your breath but on your clothes. Not your cigarettes. I know the whole family have a certain filthy habit, so it's obvious. Has young Harry found anyone yet? It's been a while."

"Prince Harry remains... Unattached. Her Majesty is well. I am, for lack of a better term, a member of the British Government, and I need your expertise."

The man snorted, picking at his wrists. Mycroft saw raw patches of new skin, but said nothing.

"My 'expertise' is what got me clapped in irons in the first place, Mr Holmes. People don't like it when you understand them. Or when you can cast spells without a wand. Or when you kill serial murderers."

"Nevertheless, I have need of you, and I can offer you your freedom in exchange."

The man looked up, eyes shining.

"Not lying. Interesting. You need power for that, Mr British Government. A lot of power. I've been here for years, after all. Four, nearly five I'd say, judging by your eyebrows."

Mycroft didn't ask.

"What does 'freedom' entail?" the man asked.

"Escape from Azkaban, a new identity, a flat in muggle London, all your finances and belongings from all of your Lordships and inheritances returned to you, a form of diplomatic immunity, additional monthly payments from the government, and access to anything you may need for experiments and investigations - within reason," Mycroft listed off.

"Yes, yes, but what's the catch?"

Mycroft smiled.

"You will be, officially, a renegade genius and 'consulting detective', helping on curious cases. Unofficially, and far more secretly, you will be the Crown's personal investigator, looking into concerns of the royal family and the British Isles."

"So, I get out of here, get a shiny new name, some toys, and then I just... do whatever you tell me to?" the man hummed, pressing his fingers together and propping them at his chin. Mycroft waited, trying not to fidget. The man was unnaturally still.

"I accept, Mr Holmes. This is far too interesting to pass up," the man stood, shaking Mycroft's hand firmly.

"Excellent. Thank you, Mr Potter."

Potter - Harry - grinned violently. His eyes were scarily sane after nearly five years in Azkaban.

"No, thank you, Mr Holmes. I was so very bored."

"Please, call me Mycroft. You're my new little brother, after all," Mycroft smiled flatly, and Harry laughed delightedly.

"This will be fun, Mycroft Holmes."

"I quite agree, Sherlock Holmes."

**AN - **

**Whelp. This sort of just happened out of nowhere one night, so I'm gonna throw this up here and see what people make of it. If people like it I'll continue the fic, if not this snippet can work as a oneshot of sorts.**

**Adventure!**

**See y'all on the flip side,**

**Zanchev**


	2. Chapter One

**~Chapter 1~**

_Cold, cruel eyes looked on dispassionately as Harry screamed and thrashed. Cold hands clutched at his clothes, his skin, dragging him backwards into the dark._

_"No! No! Please!" Harry screamed and screamed. Begged. Pleaded. "Help me! Ron, Hermione, anyone please help me!"_

_"It's for the best," voices whispered, a cacophony of damnation. "You're too dangerous."_

_Harry sobbed, alone but for the cold, clammy hands that threw him to the floor and locked him in the dark. He screamed, the whispers getting louder, louder._

_"For your own good, too dangerous, **FREAK**..."_

Sherlock sat bolt upright in his bed, panting. He glanced around, every detail burying into his brain, calming him with emotionless, unfeeling data. He saw the time and groaned, rubbing at his face.

He needed a cigarette.

He dragged himself from the bed - he'd never sleep more now - and pulled a nicotine patch from under the skull he'd pilfered from his first case, slapping it to his arm and moving to his kitchen. He dodged the severed hand hanging from his ceiling fan and began to make himself a cup of tea.

His phone pinged, and Sherlock flipped it open. It was a text from Mycroft. Must be a meeting - dentists are hardly open at three in the morning.

**[Have you found a new flat yet? -MH]**

Sherlock huffed. The idea to move flats was ridiculous. He'd been fine here for four years, why change now? The fact that he'd spoken to Mrs Hudson (an old case; fun but painfully easy) and had a flat on Baker Street ready for him was completely beside the point. He flicked a text back, hoping it buzzed at an awkward point in Mycroft's business.

**[Have a place lined up. Go away. -SH]**

Sherlock sipped at his tea and sat on his table, poking a petri dish with his toe. He was bored again. The nightmares and memories always got worse when he was bored. His phone pinged again.

**[You must get a flat mate this time. It will decrease suspicion and intrigue. -MH]**

Sherlock groaned. He hated people; they were always so boring and petty and selfish. So normal. At least Mycroft was ruthless, and Mrs Hudson had biscuits. Mycroft was right, of course, but flatmates meant no magic. And talking.

**[If I must. Meanie. -SH]**

Sherlock cleaned up after himself and fetched his coat. It was too boring here. He had to go, get his mind working again. Maybe go visit that Stamford bloke - he always talked to lots of people. Sherlock glanced outside and frowned. Waiting until daylight was probably a good idea.

Sherlock pulled on his coat and scarf, before he took his riding crop out from the freezer, snapping it against his palm. Time to visit Molly.

***xXx***

**[Found a flat mate yet? -MH]**

Sherlock muttered viciously under his breath, throwing his phone onto his discarded scarf and turning back to the body in front of him. He began to strike the hide of the - male, six foot two, mid fourties, estimated fourty three point seven years old, married twelve years three months divorced after two children and three affairs unsatisfactory job premature ejacul -

Sherlock gave a final whip of the crop and shook his head roughly. He was bored again. His Sight was acting up. He turned to smile at Molly, who was staring at him. He had seen Stamford earlier, and anticipated a result approximately four point two hours from their meeting. He accepted Molly's offer to make coffee and moved to the lab.

He was searching through a series of his own personal samples, looking at the reaction of alcohol in both his and a muggle's blood. The muggle didn't even notice him take his samples - pathetic. His phone pinged, and Sherlock flipped it out.

**[Sherlock, I expect a flat mate by the end of the day. -MH]**

Sherlock swore. That was a Serious Business text. It had his name and everything. He sent back an acknowledgement, well aware that he was only one or two away from a Deep Shit text, or worse - an 'I'm Telling Mummy' text.

Sherlock grinned; referring to the Queen as 'Mummy' was a moment of genius on Mycroft's part. As the only one in charge of the two of them, it turned out that they had to report to her often. Of course, talking about the Queen like that in public was out of the question, so Mycroft, seeing as they were playing Happy Family, came up with the idea to call her 'Mummy'. Her Majesty approved - even once tried to get Sherlock to call her that to her face - and the idea stuck.

Tucking his phone into his jacket pocket, Sherlock turned back to his samples. The door opened and Sherlock glanced up and smirked. Right on schedule.

Stamford walked in, followed by a limping man with a heavy duty walking stick. Sherlock winced in sympathy - he too had seen war. The man was young, recently off duty, shot but not in the leg - that limp was psychosomatic - he was tired PTSD caring practiced steady **doctor **-

Sherlock shook his head; the Sight was getting out of hand. It had been too long since he watched magic. He hated the Mage Sight sometimes. It was designed to See magic and it's intricacies, not be wasted in the Muggle world. It relieved itself with abnormal insight and _noticing_. Sherlock sighed softly, but returned his attention to Stamford and Mr Doctor.

"Can I borrow your phone?" he asked. Stamford was forgetful, never had it charged, leaving... yes. Caring Doctor to the rescue. He took the phone and sent off a nonsensical text to Mycroft. Serves him right, let him try and find a code in that!

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock ignored Stamford's smile and kept looking at the doctor. His hands brushed over the phone, and the Sight hissed into his mind - alcoholic sibling recently separated wanting to keep in touch but as stubborn as Ron -

Sherlock shut the thought down and threw himself into his conversation, analysing the doctor - John Watson - furiously, but smiling when Watson said he was amazing. He'd forgotten how nice it was to be praised. Sherlock pushed away the sentiment by launching into a flat mate spiel.

"I play violin at all hours, hope you don't mind - helps me think. I believe flatmates should know the worst of each other, yes?" Sherlock smiled; if only that was the worst of him. John seemed a bit perplexed, and Sherlock heard him stutter over the buzz of a new text. He pulled out his phone.

**[What was that about? - MH]**

Sherlock smiled. It had taken dear Mycroft longer to figure that out than he'd thought it would. Slow. Sherlock stood, sweeping his coat and scarf into his arms just as Molly came in with coffee.

"Thanks, Molly, I'm off!" he smiled, ignoring her faintly melancholic nod. "Pleasure to meet you Doctor Watson. I've found a flat I think you'll like, see you tomorrow."

He heard Watson splutter some questions as he left, and he laughed to himself, pulling on his coat. He ducked Back and rattled off the answer, enjoying his new flatmate's gape.

"We'll meet at noon on the dot, the address is 221B Baker Street, and my name is Sherlock Holmes. See you tomorrow, Doctor Watson."

He swept out of the hospital, smiling widely. He'd move out to tonight, get things set up with Mrs Hudson... Sherlock pulled his phone out and sent dear Mycroft a text. Things were coming together well.

**[Found a flat mate. I like him. - SH]**

Mycroft sighed at the text. He hoped this 'him' would be able to deal with Potter - no, Sherlock - because God knew he couldn't. He called in his secretary - he'd need to meet this flatmate.

**AN - **

**Holy crap!**

**You guys are fantastic - nearly 700 visitors in under three days? And all your follows and favourites and reviews! Ugh I feel so loved! Thank yous and hugs and whatnot to you all!**

**I'm really pumped about this story now, looking forward to publishing more of it! At the moment I'm hoping to get a chapter up every Friday (Australia time) starting today, but I'm not sure for how long that will work, considering I'm hella busy for 90% of my life.**

**That said, I promise to keep working on this story diligently, and hope to see you all reading and reviewing and just enjoying the adventure as much as I am!**

**See y'all on the flip side,**

**-Z**


	3. Chapter Two

**~Chapter 2~**

John Watson looked around the cluttered flat with a faint smile. It was a nice place - he could see himself enjoying retirement here, once it was tidied up a bit. He glanced at the other man, Sherlock Holmes, and shook his head slightly. The seemingly younger man was wired, so tense John could almost smell it.

"It's nice, I like it," John offered, smiling when Sherlock relaxed.

"Thought you might, it's why I already moved in."

John blinked, then looked around. All this stuff was Sherlock's. It wasn't being moved out. Right. Sherlock seemed to know what he was thinking and began bustling about, talking about tidying up. John smiled. He reckoned he could like it here.

Sherlock seemed nervous, like he was expecting John to yell or leave or something. John wondered just how often this man was rejected for his gifts to behave this way - and what amazing gifts they were! He hadn't seen anyone deduce so much from so little since -

But that was a train of thought John wasn't willing to go down. He shook his head clear of memories of long ago and made himself focus on the now. Now, Sherlock seemed very excited.

"Come on, John!"

Before he quite knew what was going on, John was being swept away in a cab with Sherlock to - a crime scene?!

John swore to himself as his blasted cane got in the way of his being able to simply duck under the police tape. Sherlock - almost absentmindedly - lifted it for him, ducking under after him and quickly taking the lead on the way to the building. John was about to follow when he heard it. That hated word.

Freak.

He saw Sherlock pause infinitesimally, so slightly that no one else would notice. But John knew, somehow, that that word was important to Sherlock, the same way it was important to -

Again. Not that road.

Regardless, John detested the F word, and made sure to give the smug woman his most fearsome "I kill people for a living don't tempt me" glare on his way to follow Sherlock. If the woman had backed up a few steps and whimpered a bit, well John would deny his sense of smug satisfaction until the day he died.

He caught up in time to be fitted in a blue plastic suit and shoved towards the stairs. John looked between his cane and the multiple flights of steps, and cursed softly. A chuckle behind him had John spinning to see Sherlock looking amused. John rolled his eyes at his new flatmate, and followed him up the stairs.

His psychologist had told him to find a hobby, after all.

***xXx***

Pink. Pink everywhere.

John fought the urge to cover his eyes against the garish colour, instead choosing to watch the dark coat swirling about Sherlock's thin legs as he swept around the scene gracefully - like a vampire or something. Sherlock knelt beside the body, gleaning from a ring and some tiny spots of mud a whole theory on how the woman came to be where she was.

John couldn't fault Sherlock his conclusions, as much as he couldn't fathom how the man had reached them. Sherlock moved with a grace better suited to ballet, or a battlefield. Light steps, total control over every muscle in his body, tightly wound and poised to strike in any direction. So much like the bomb survivors and Prisoners of War they'd rescued in the Army. He couldn't help but follow Sherlock as he took the city by storm.

He hadn't even noticed he'd left his cane behind until that man from the restaurant - the one who'd thought he and Sherlock were dating - had returned it. John stared at the stick. He'd been so stupidly dependent on it, for weeks. Why had he let such a pitiful object - such a small fear - get the best of him like that?

And why had it taken Sherlock Bloody Holmes to break him out of it?

_How_ had he broken him out of it?

John soon left such thoughts behind him along with the cane as Sherlock blew through 221B Baker Street and back into the fray like a cyclone of sarcasm and ingenuity. John grinned to himself as he joined the adventure wholeheartedly. He hadn't had this much fun in years.

It wasn't until a lull in the action that John had a chance to think about his new flat - and his new roommate. He was no stranger to sharing bunks - army barracks and boarding school had beaten any need for privacy out of him long ago. He knew how to hide some of his bigger quirks in plain sight - though with Sherlock, he would probably have to get inventive. He was pondering his new situation when a phone rang.

Across the street.

John glanced around, but saw no one looking to take the call. He sighed, crossed the road, and took the phone off the cradle as he closed the booth.

"John Watson."

John was on instant alert. He knew that oily tone of voice well. Politician, smoothness and silent strikes, like a snake. He waited.

"It would seem we have a common acquaintance, Dr Watson," the voice slithered down the phone line. "I find myself curious about you, and your interest in one Sherlock Holmes."

"What -" John was interrupted.

"Dr Watson, I have eyes on you at any moment in any place. I know where you're spending your days and with whom. Do not insult my considerable intellect with playing dumb."

John scowled, but kept silent. The voice continued.

"Excellent. Now, if you would be so kind, I'd like to get to know you a bit better. Get in."

"Get in where?" John bit out, glancing around. His only response was a sleek black car gliding to a stop right beside the phone box he was in. John sighed, hung up, and slid into the car only to come face to face with a pretty young woman. He gave a smile.

"Hello, I'm John Watson," he offered his hand. The woman eyed it, then him, with a cocked eyebrow.

"I know."

John took back his rejected hand and leaned back, wondering just what the hell he'd gotten himself into this time.

**AN - **

**Howdy all!**

**Second chapter, hot damn! I'm loving this story way more than I probably should, not gonna lie.**

**I know I've taken dozens of liberties when it comes to the order of things and where people are and whatever in regards to the Sherlock episode, but I figure seeing as Sherlock is secretly a wizard, having one thing happen before another is a minor transgression :)**

**Speaking of loving things - holy shit, guys! My notifications exploded with all the love for this story, I'm staggered. I have nearly 700 notifications of follows and favourites and all that jazz. Super Stoked, you have no idea. **

**Hoping everyone is still enjoying the story, loving your reviews and looking forward to catching y'all on the flip side!**

**-Z**


	4. Chapter Three

**~Chapter 3~**

"Doctor Watson, welcome."

Mycroft eyed the doctor as he cautiously stepped into the dim light if the empty warehouse he had chosen for this meeting. The man was wary, smart, prepared to defend if necessary.

Good.

Mycroft smiled his best politician smile, not bothering to offer false warmth. The doctor grimaced back, and Mycroft noticed his right hand clenching into a fist, as if around a weapon. Interesting.

"So glad you could make it," Mycroft offered. Watson snorted, as inelegant as Sherlock. They stood in a six second impasse, before the doctor broke, to Mycroft's satisfaction.

"Why am I here?" he bit out. Mycroft found himself grudgingly impressed by the man's priorities. No who, what, or where; straight to the heart of the matter. He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"You have been interested in Sherlock Holmes. I want to know why."

"You, ah, y'could have just asked nicely, instead of all this Secret Service, kidnapping business," Watson replied. He was still tense. Mycroft smiled blandly again.

"I shall take that into consideration for the future. Please, answer my questions, and quickly. I do have other appointments."

Watson scoffed.

"Appointments. Right. That what you lot call abduction nowadays, is it?"

Mycroft glared, and the doctor, to his credit, glared right back. It was closer to six minutes before Watson broke again, backing down reluctantly.

"He's my new flat mate. I just wanted to make sure I knew what I was getting into - bit paranoid, y'know?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. That was... somewhat believable, but not convincing. Watson shifted nervously, and Mycroft's other eyebrow joined the first.

"I see. Doctor Watson, what do you know about Sherlock Holmes?"

"Only that he's a consulting Detective, he's not got many friends, and he's brilliant."

Mycroft swallowed a sigh of relief - their secrets were still safe. He hid behind an entirely unsubtle attempt at bribing the Doctor to spy on Sherlock for him.

The reaction to that was surprising.

"I will never betray a friend like that! Never! Sherlock's business is his own - none of mine and certainly none of yours. Just who the do you think you are? How do you know of Sherlock?"

Watson's fist was clenched tighter; knuckles white. Mycroft couldn't help the small smile at the loyalty Sherlock already had coursing through the doctor, all for him. He was... proud of the wayward wizard.

"Doctor Watson, I assure you I mean Sherlock no harm. My name is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. I'm only asking to -"

"That you are his brother only makes it worse, Mister Holmes," Watson spat. Mycroft was surprised at the rage in the doctor's eyes. "Family should be there for support, not spying."

Mycroft really wasn't sure what to make of Doctor Watson. The man seemed unassuming, kind, the sort to help you into bed after a stressful day or alcoholic night. And yet, in almost the same breath, the man was fierce, a fighter, not afraid to attack and - dare he think it - kill in defense of those he cared for. Mycroft looked the other man over, from the scuff marks on his shoes that indicated a walking stick, obviously unnecessary, to his thin and overworn cardigan, to the grey hairs at his temple - a sign of stress, given he couldn't be much older than Sherlock himself. Doctor Watson, it seemed, was a sleeping grizzly bear prowling the streets of London beside his brother. A hidden lion wearing a Sheep's woollen coat. Mycroft offered his special brand of Bland smile once more.

"I get the feeling you and I will end up working together quite closely, Doctor Watson. I find myself, surprisingly, looking forward to future collaborations," Mycroft extended a carefully manicured and sanitized hand. He tried not to wince when the doctor's coarse, calloused palm brushed his own, staining it with everyday life. He saw Doctor Watson roll his eyes and knew his subtlety was, well, not as subtle as he had hoped. Discretion abandoned, Mycroft took a sanitized wipe from a pocket and began to disinfect his hands as he gestured for his PA to escort the man home. "Do enjoy your new flat, John Watson. The company you keep will... ensure you're well entertained, no doubt."

**[I had a charming little chat with your new flat mate. I'm impressed. - MH]**

Sherlock groaned at the text; trust big brother Mycroft to get his slimy sanitized mitts all over Sherlock's nice new friend. Sherlock paused.

Did he really consider John to be his... friend?

Mulling it over he came to the conclusion that yes, yes he did. Despite not knowing him for more than seventy two hours, despite knowing little more than a few observations about the man, despite everything he'd done to keep everyone out and himself safe from emotion; Sherlock had found a friend in John Watson.

Sherlock grinned. He hadn't had a friend in such a long time. He'd forgotten how good it was to want to please someone just for the sake of making them smile. Sherlock looked around himself at the lab, where he was magically tearing apart and analysing the compound found in the dead Umbridge try hard. He wanted to... he wanted to share this, his accomplishments. For the first time since, well since before Hogwarts he wanted to show off. Say 'look what I did' and enjoy the reaction.

Harry grinned, green leaking through the blue glamour over his eyes as excitement took hold. He shook his head, re-applying the illusion absently, and shot a quick, snarky response to Mycroft before tapping on the conversation with John's mobile. What to say?

**[St Bart's Hospital, morgue. Come immediately if convenient. -SH]**

There, that should do it. Sherlock re read his message and frowned. It was too distant. He needed to imply how much he wanted John to be here with him, sharing his triumphs. Sherlock thought for a moment, before quickly tapping away another text.

**[If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH]**

Perfect. Sherlock sat back and returned his attention to the microscope in front of him, rechecking his conclusions for a seventh time.

He couldn't wait to show John.

**AN - **

**Hello again!**

**Another installment of Mr Holmes for you all, huzzah!**

**In which we see that John is already protective of Sherlock, Mycroft is a sleazy politician, and Sherlock has feelings.**

**I'm really excited to expand upon the hints I've already left regarding John, and Sherlock, and basically everyone, and look into what led to Sherlock winding up in Azkaban, and all the rest. So much to look forward to, so little time!**

**One little question - should there be pairings in this fic? There can, quite frankly, be no romance just as easily as there is, so it is entirely up to you, dear readers, whether or not you do want any of the characters to get any.**

**Thanks again for your continued love and support - every time I see my traffic stats I get this goofy grin on my face.**

**Catch y'all on the flip side**

**Zanchev.**


	5. Chapter Four

**~Chapter 4~**

**[St Bart's Hospital, morgue. Come immediately if convenient. -SH]**

**[If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH]**

John rolled his eyes at the messages Sherlock sent, shaking his fondly. The man seemed so distant and pushy, he didn't really understand why he liked the guy so much. Maybe it was the enthusiasm he showed in his adventures, or the way that his hair and smirk reminded him of -

Still not going there.

John paid the cab driver and raced into the Hospital, heading straight for the laboratories. He paused outside the door to take a deep breath, before letting himself in and wandering up to stand behind his new friend. Sherlock didn't move, for all the world seeming unaware of his surroundings, but John noticed the tiniest of twitches in the man's shoulders - he knew John was there, he likely knew exactly when John came in and the route he took to get where he was, at that.

"Met an interesting fellow just now," John said by way of a greeting. Sherlock didn't relax, if anything his back tensed further. John frowned to himself, wondering what the other man was thinking.

"Have fun with Mycroft?"

Ah, that was it. The casually asked, lazy question disguised the nervous tone of voice and stiff posture. John smiled, not even bothering to ask how Sherlock had known who it was he met - maybe he smelled of Mycroft's umbrella or something infinitesimal like that.

"It was an... interesting appointment," John replied, placing the emphasis on the word 'appointment' and wondering if Sherlock would pick it up. Oh, of course he would, but would he pick up what John was specifically implying, was the more interesting thought.

"I'll be sure to tell him to stop reading organised crime novels, shall I?" Sherlock muttered, and John beamed. Honestly, was there nothing this man couldn't puzzle out? "How much did he offer?"

John froze. How...?

"Must have been quite a lot, he always tends to aim high. Come on then, how much?"

John winced. Sherlock's brother had obviously done this before, then. Offered money or favours to have Sherlock monitored. He wondered how long that had been going on - had Sherlock had to weasel out spies as a child? Had he really been so alone for so long?

"How much, John?"

John's eyes snapped up to see Sherlock glaring at him, stance irritated and voice mildly annoyed, looking for all the world frustrated by his lack of response, but unaffected by the words he was spouting. John, however, could see the hurt and preparation to face betrayal in his eyes, and sighed.

"Not enough, Sherlock. Never enough," John offered a weak smile. Sherlock moved to snort, but paused when the words registered. His eyes widened slightly, and he stared at John again, as if seeing him for the first time.

Never before had John felt so thoroughly pulled apart and put back together again. Sherlock's eyes flashed from left to right, scanning every inch of John's face, hands, stance... John just stood and tried to be as relaxed, honest and open as possible. If he could show Sherlock he meant what he said, maybe the other man could finally let go of any standoffish distance he bundled around himself like a baby blanket and let others in...

"Not lying."

The whisper was almost inaudible, but John caught the words. They were uttered in a way that made John think it was unconscious on Sherlock's part, maybe some form of remnant from a time when he would... talk to himself? John took a slow step forward, and placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder. It took a few minutes, but eventually John felt the muscles beneath his fingers unknot and relax, slowly, but steadily. He smiled happily.

"So, what was so urgent, then?"

John's smile widened when Sherlock launched into an animated one-man debate about what he'd found on the Pink Lady. As Sherlock whirled around theories and danced through plot-holes in his own hypotheses, correcting and weaving a plausible scenario, John just smiled and watched, happy that he was slowly making his way into his friend's little world, step by baby step.

**[I win this round, old man. - SH]**

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the text message. Honestly, sometimes he could swear up and down to high heaven that Sherlock had never progressed beyond the mental age of five. All this talk of games and winning when in reality Mycroft had already rigged the board years ago. Nonsense, the lot of it.

That said, Mycroft was rather impressed by Sherlock's newest little partner in crime, for lack of a better phrase. John Watson had a sterling record, that he could find, all honour rolls and medals and approval. The man was honest, loyal, hardworking and very clever. It was a wonder he hadn't been pursued by half a dozen hospitals or government departments right after his retirement from the military. That Sherlock had managed to snap up such a political national commodity right under the noses of his corrupt and complacent colleagues was astounding, and rather vindictively pleasing.

**[Congratulations, brother dear. Do try to keep this one, I've grown tired of your constantly alienating, frightening, and experimenting on your pets. - MH]**

Mycroft leaned back in his horrendously squishy armchair and snapped his paper, enjoying the silence that came with the tea room. He scanned the world section of the Daily Telegraph and had a quiet chuckle. Honestly, the articles were better than the comics any day. The public were so simple minded, so utterly clueless as to the way of things. It was a constant source of amusement. Another buzz had Mycroft glancing to his phone once more.

**[This one's not a pet. And besides, I haven't needed you to clean up after me for four years now, Mycroft. - SH]**

Mycroft snickered at the term 'clean up', still in a jovial mood from the latest public news flash regarding the politics of Europe and the Colonies. It truly never got old. Clearing his throat and straightening his posture, Mycroft re read the message, noting the first sentence.

Could Sherlock finally be branching out of his self-imposed social exile? Intriguing. This Watson fellow appeared to be of more worth than originally expected. Mycroft did enjoy the odd pleasant surprise.

**[Yes, but you cannot forget the two years before that, where I was forced to have a whole street memory wiped almost thrice a month. Honestly, brother, take better care of your things. - MH]**

Mycroft could practically hear Sherlock huffing and puffing in childish outrage. The boy - for, no matter how old he was and what he'd borne witness to, he would always be just a boy, thrust into issues beyond him and forced to tackle problems too large for him - would pout and moan and curse at him, knowing that Mycroft was right and that both he and Mycroft knew it. Some things never changed.

**[Excuse me for needing a little while to get used to normal life in the outside world. - SH]**

Mycroft paused at that one, all left over hilarity quickly dissipated. This was no longer his spoiled, arrogant little brother pouting and bemoaning his imagined rotten luck. This was the young hero, who had saved the world three times before his eighteenth birthday, and again almost yearly since he turned twenty two, reaching out for reassurance. Mycroft sighed and rubbed at his temple. For all his intelligence and encyclopaedic knowledge of social cues and conventions, he always managed to forget that Sherlock - no, _Harry_ \- was not one he needed to goad and manipulate, but an ally, a friend, someone who was at his back against the world.

Hard to believe that in the six years since Sherlock Holmes' creation, Mycroft had so easily forgotten that Harry Potter was still there, as well.

**[No feeling sorry for yourself now, Sherlock. Moping does not become you. - MH]**

Mood thoroughly sobered, Mycroft finished off his cake and sipped the last of his sweetened tea. Folding his newspaper and gathering his umbrella, Mycroft stood smoothly and made his silent way from the room, strolling to his car and settling for a trip to the Palace. He had appointments, after all. Not everything was cake and comedy.

A buzz from his pocket alerted Mycroft to the outside world.

**[I don't feel sorry for me, I feel sorry for everyone else. - SH]**

Mycroft smiled at the apology and thanks hidden inside and underneath the arrogance.

**[You're welcome. - MH]**

**[Piss off. - SH]**

Mycroft strode into Buckingham Palace with a thin, but genuine smile on his face. Confidence seeped through him and out into his commanding presence. Mycroft made his way to his Royal Meeting, smug in the knowledge that all was well.

**AN - **

**And here we have another installment of Mr Holmes! Hooray!**

**We get to see a little more into the relationship between Harry and Mycroft, which is nice. We also get to see the budding friendship between John and Sherlock, which is also nice.**

**Almost all the reviews I got in response to my question about the pairings were resoundingly against romantic pairings, and of the few that wanted pairings, only one wanted Johnlock. To be honest, I'm kind of pleased about this, and I'm looking forward to developing the friendship and possibly potential brotherhood between John and Sherlock. This will flourish more once I've finished with the first episode of the original BBC series, where I intend to branch off slightly, and explore the characters, and their pasts, a little more :D**

**There were a couple things I wanted to ask of y'all, in response to a couple of comments from reviewers that have caught my eye.**

**1) Should Moriarty be in any way related to the wizarding world? I'm loathe to make him an actual character (like malfoy or whatever), but there is potential for him to be connected to that aspect of Harry's past. Thoughts?**

**2) Should Sherlock have any daliances with Irene Adler? Adler will be in the story at some point, but should there be any romance flaring, or is it merely mutual appreciation of the others' talents?**

**3) Is there anything in particular people want to see? I have large, soaring plots that will weave their ways over and through the chapters somewhat like a descant, but there's a whole bunch of nitty gritty wonderous things that can occur in between - counter melodies and ostinatos and all the rest. So, everyone gets a say! Whoo!**

**As always, thanks to you all for the glorious attention you've bestowed my work and, by extension, me. It's always a beautiful ego boost.**

**I look forward to seeing y'all on the flip side,**

**Zanchev**


	6. Chapter Five

**~Chapter 5~**

Cabs. Cabs everywhere. John never could understand how Sherlock always managed to find a cab within minutes of leaving whatever building he was tearing through at the time. Did he pay the cab company to just have cars circling the block ready for him?

He wouldn't put it past the eccentric detective, really.

John shook his head clear of errant thoughts and hastened after Sherlock, who was gone off with the wind, chasing after the scent of whatever he was looking for now. John followed Sherlock's confident stride as he couldn't follow his brilliant mind, standing just behind his new friend's right shoulder, a silent guardian.

Speaking of cabs, Sherlock had hailed one effortlessly, only glancing up from his phone once before the car was smoothly pulling over. John wondered who Sherlock was furiously texting that he couldn't even spare more than a second to look for transport.

Despite how short their acquaintance was, John knew that Sherlock detested clambering into cabs and sliding gracelessly over seats. Seeing Sherlock still with his head bent over his phone, John moved forward to slide into the cab before him and prevent Sherlock the hated awkwardness. Sherlock stopped him before he could open the door.

"This one's mine, get the next one."

John stared as Sherlock gracefully sat himself behind the driver and the cab disappeared without him. He couldn't quite believe the ridiculousness of paying two cab fares to get two people to one place, but shook his head in resignation. John firmly believed that he'd never understand Sherlock Holmes.

He quickly hailed another overly convenient cab - he was definitely having a talk with Sherlock after this - and asked the driver to follow in Sherlock's wake. As the car pulled smoothly away from the curb and took off after the speeding cab, John couldn't help but wonder just what the hell Sherlock was doing.

**.xXx.**

**[Have lead, following up now. -SH]**

Mycroft sighed to himself, the near silent gust of air echoing through the deathly quiet of the tea room. Of course his idiot of a charge would gallivant off after the serial murderer with no back up, no weapons to speak of, and no fall back plans. Sometimes it was so blatantly obvious that Harry Potter was behind those blue eyes that Mycroft was surprised Wizarding Britain hadn't figured it out yet.

Then again, it pays to do business with the Goblins first and foremost. Lovely chaps, excellent senses of humour.

Mycroft placed aside his newspaper and re read the text message, pondering the logistics of Sherlock's latest half-concocted venture. He idly tapped his foot against the leg of his side table, chewing the inside of his cheek. Filthy habit, but one does pick up such things in times of stress and boredom.

He just wasn't sure which of those this instance counted as.

Finally he sighed again and began to respond, mind whirling with the next steps of this - by now - routine drama.

**[Do be careful, I hate cleaning up after you. -MH]**

That sent, Mycroft finished his cake and rose elegantly from his seat, strolling towards the exit with his umbrella in hand. There was much to be done. His own personal Obliviators would need to be on stand by, as would the London PD and Scotland Yard. Then there was fire, ambulance, news, government, army, and church to notify - best to have all bases covered.

Oh, and of course he'd have to call Mummy.

Mycroft sighed yet again; Sherlock really did attract the most tedious of troubles.

Stepping out into the cool air of even, Mycroft greeted his assistant with a nod as he slid into his personal car, her not far behind. Mycroft glanced out the window briefly before returning his attention to his phone, already tapping away notifications for all relevant parties.

"I wonder, my dear, could you get a tracker onto my errant brother's mobile phone?" Mycroft asked idly, noting the way that she didn't even look away from her device as she accepted her task. Single-minded focus was an admirable quality.

Mycroft sent off his messages, receiving confirmation from them all - mostly in the form of violent swearing and "Not again" - before hitting speed dial and holding the phone four centimetres away from his ear. Such unhygienic devices, yet so useful.

The phone rang twice before it was answered. Mycroft smiled thinly.

"Hello, Mummy."

**.xXx.**

**[I'm always careful. -SH]**

Sherlock sent his reply off even as the cab pulled into a schoolyard, abandoned for the night. It was charming, really, the thought the killer put into his locations. Traumatising children was so very quaint.

"Are you ready, Mr 'Olmes?"

Sherlock glanced to the cabbie in front of him. He was so old, so frail, so ill. It was so utterly _obvious_ that he would be the killer. Why had it taken him so long to piece it all together? And what could he possibly have done to convince each of his victims to kill themselves?

A brief nod had the man - Phil - ambling his way into the building, Sherlock hot at his heels. His phone was left in the cab, as per Phil's insistence, but Sherlock didn't care about that. No, this little predicament was far more interesting than any messages Mycroft could possibly come up with.

**[That's what worries me. -MH]**

Sherlock smirked as Phil pulled out two little jars - vials, even - each containing a single, identical pill. They appeared harmless, something you'd pick up from a Chemist or, if you were Sherlock, made yourself in your bathroom sink. There was no really way to distinguish between them - same size, same shape, same colour, same number of blue specks in a near identical pattern - and yet one would kill, the other cure. It was a game, a joke, a riddle.

Sherlock paused. A riddle...

All of a sudden, Sherlock was no longer in an abandoned school room playing Russian Roulette with a terminal cabbie. He was back, over a decade in time and several hundred kilometres north, in a dungeon in a castle. Another time, another riddle.

_Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind..._

**[Sherlock. -MH]**

Sherlock remembered the fear, the panic of his eleven year old self at the seemingly impossible choice before him. So many ways to die, so many ways to fail, only one way to move forward, but forward was death. Sherlock swallowed down the bile that threatened to claw its way up his throat. It was different now, he was older, wiser, smarter, he'd figure this riddle out no problem.

It was easy.

But the memory was making way for others. Chess matches and fights and dungeons and potions and voices, so many voices, all crowding in. There as a chink in the armour, a hole in the wall, and Sherlock's past was battering at the door, breaking its way into his mind. Voices, spells, yelling, crying, swirling colours and sounds and overwhelming pain and guilt and fear.

He couldn't escape, he couldn't get away, he was trapped.

Trapped in his own mind, his last defense.

_Oh no..._

**[Sherlock, respond immediately. -MH]**

Sherlock couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Everything was collapsing around him, all his carefully constructed defenses razed to the ground in the face of two, tiny, insignificant pills.

Voices, screaming, muttering, condemning from every side battered his ears and tore at his heart. Years of death and danger and deceit, all coming back to him, all at once. Sherlock clapped his hands over his ears, staggering away from the choice that bloody _choice_...

_Danger lies before you..._

Phil's voice, asking him to hurry up, mingled with the voices of the past screeching at him. Ron's hoarse shouting - _should've known you'd get in, no point telling me how to do it too though, huh? No need to tell your best friend_ \- Hermione's stern ranting - _Harry, you can't! You'll get us all killed, or worse expelled! _\- Ginny's ear-grating whining - _Stop moping, Harry! Talk to me, Harry! Why don't you love me, Harry!_ \- it was all too much. Too much!

_Danger..._

He had to focus, he had to think, he had to get away from the memories, the guilt, the voices...

_Ungrateful Brat Saviour Destroyer Boy-Who-Lived Chosen One Saint Potter Boy Scar-Head Champion Lunatic Man-Who-Killed Dangerous Criminal Coward FREAK..._

Sherlock shook his head furiously, glaring at the two little pills in their two little jars, so seemingly innocent and yet dripping with the guilt and pain of years of suffering. Phil was sitting there, smiling serenely as Sherlock fell apart, scratching at his head and snarling under his breath. Sherlock glared at him hatefully - it was all his fault, him and that stupid bloody pill and his stupid bloody smile and the stupid bloody voices.

_Too dangerous to be left free too unstable to be left alone unnatural unstable ungrateful freak freak FREAK..._

**[Damn it Sherlock! -MH]**

"Shut up!" Sherlock shouted over Phil, who paused in his reminiscing of his prior victims to watch curiously. Sherlock paced and growled and tried to rid himself of the memories, the betrayal. He was too calm, too quiet, too content to sit and watch.

_Danger..._

Sherlock span on one heel, stomping in the opposite direction as he paced and paced and thought and thought. Forcing his mind beyond the voices, beyond the fear, beyond the past to focus on the present danger. A choice, like the one from years ago. A riddle to be pondered and solved and beaten.

Beaten.

_Get back here Boy or I'll whip you till you bleed -_

No. Sherlock span and paced the opposite direction. He'd defeat this like he'd defeated every other challenge in his life. He'd win and go home and be Sherlock Holmes. Harry Potter was gone, a memory, a shadow, a voice among thousands. Sherlock Holmes was his life now, he'd never go back.

_For your own good, for the Greater Good -_

Sherlock shook his head and stared at the jars with their pills, burning the image into his mind and using it to fend off the memories. It was only a riddle, only a riddle.

_Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind..._

Sherlock froze, pausing in the middle of his pacing as he felt it. A tingling on the back if his neck, a secondary sense telling him that there was something behind him, someone behind him, watching. Waiting. Ready to pounce at a moment's notice. A glance to Phil told Sherlock that he hadn't noticed as the old man stood and started to slowly approach Sherlock, gun aimed for his stomach. A long, slow, painful death.

Much like Phil's own.

The tingling was still there, irritating, distracting...

_Safety lies behind..._

Sherlock stood straight, eyes wide, spinning around just in time to hear a gunshot from outside the window behind him. He threw himself left and down, cursing as his leg hit one of the spindly stools scattered about the room. A pained cry had Sherlock's head snapping up in time to see Phil - desperate, dying Phil - clutch at his chest. They locked eyes, Sherlock's wide and Phil's resigned, before the cabbie crumpled to the floor, blood spreading from the wound and staining his home-knitted cardigan. Sherlock inched closer, checking for a pulse, a sign that he would live.

There was none.

Sherlock sighed, staggering to his feet. He looked around himself for some clue, some sign of what had happened. His eye caught the two jars on the table, still torturing him. Two quick steps and a sweep of the hand, and the two jars shattered against the cold linoleum floor. Sherlock watched the pills bounce against the body of the Cabbie Murderer with a detached sort of satisfaction.

It was over, he'd beaten the past, forced back into his nightmares where it belonged. He'd solved the case. He was alive. He was -

Not all right. Not even a little bit. But he could be, in time. This episode was just that - brief, over quickly, to be ignored or used to strengthen resolve. He would be OK, in time.

Sherlock nodded to himself and turned towards the door, just in time for it to burst open.

**.xXx.**

**[We've got him, boss.]**

**[About time. -MH]**

John ducked under the crime tape and wandered over to Lestrade, who seemed to be talking to an overgrown, emaciated, sulking teenager wrapped in a large orange towel. As he got closer, John realised that said sulky child was Sherlock Holmes, and he laughed softly to himself. Sherlock was all right, he was alive and annoying the living crap out of everyone around him.

All was well.

"This is ridiculous, I'm perfectly fine! I don't understand why I've got to have this blanket on me-" Sherlock was ranting quite impressively, scowl bested only by the positively gleeful look on Lestrade's face at the sight of the bane of his existence so indisposed - even if it was arbitrary.

"It's a shock blanket, Sherlock. For the shock," the detective inspector spoke slowly, clearly relishing the words 'Sherlock' and 'shock' being so close together. If anything Sherlock managed to look even more indignant, and John snorted.

"Shock?! I'm not in shock, there was absolutely nothing shocking about any of the night's proceedings, it was all rather boring, so if I could please be excused-"

"Nope, sorry, no can do," Lestrade didn't look sorry at all. "You have to stay here until the paramedics have cleared you. Now, you stay here while I go start figuring out who fired that gun."

John paused at this, shifted nervously. Sherlock would know, he was too sharp to miss that John was the assailant. John winced, Sherlock's pride would lead him to blurting out the answer, and John would have to face a trial. He smiled to himself - he wouldn't really mind, going to jail. Not if it was for a friend. Even as John drew himself up, ready to be arrested, Sherlock began to speak.

"Oh you're such an idiot, Lestrade, it's obvious who the killer was. Ex-military, steady in grip and experienced with a weapon of that calibre. It was male, probably shooting from shoulder height from the next building over, making his height about..."

John saw Sherlock spot him, and his eyes widen in realisation. John offered him a weak smile and a nod, silently saying that it was all right, that he would accept the consequences of his actions. Sherlock frowned, his lips moving as if he were mumbling to himself. John straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to relax, waiting for the words. _It was John Watson_...

"Shock."

What?

John stared straight to Sherlock, who was standing up, in Lestrade's face, waving his awful orange blanket around like a cape. John couldn't believe his eyes as Sherlock began to shudder and jiggle and flail like a common frightened civilian. It was so different from the controlled way he moved normally, until John noticed the way the jiggles never lasted more than a few seconds, and the shuddering was exaggerated. This was planned. John sighed in relief.

"I'm in shock, Lestrade. Ignore me, I'm in shock. See? Look at my blanket!"

John couldn't help but laugh at the utterly bemused look on Lestrade's face, relief coursing through his veins. He was safe, Sherlock was safe, everything was all right. He turned away from the scene and move back out into the open, waiting for Sherlock to finish being 'shocked'.

"Th... Thank you, John."

John span to see Sherlock, looking decidedly anxious and fidgety and the most genuine John had ever seen him. He smiled, clapping Sherlock on the back and shrugging self-deprecatingly.

"What're friends for, eh?"

"Friends... I'm not very good at friends," Sherlock frowned, and John laughed.

"Me neither."

Sherlock grinned weakly, and John sighed happily. He gestured towards home with a raised eyebrow, and Sherlock nodded, pushing past to lead the way back to Baker Street. Over his shoulder John heard Lestrade shouting for them to come back, and smothered a laugh. Sherlock shot a mischievous look over his shoulder and called back.

"I'm keeping the blanket!"

**AN-**

**I am so terribly sorry for such a long gap between chapters, I promise I'm trying desperately to do better. Real life fell on top of me and I've only just managed to get it off. There is no sense going into details, just know that I now have far more free time, and far more motivation to get things done. Better late than never, eh?**

**So, the first episode of canon is over, Sherlock and John are buddies, and I'm ready to get seriously stuck into the next few chapters. Expect magic and mystery and old friends.**

**Many thanks to all those who continued to follow and favourite and review during my absence - you all not only helped me get through my real-life hullabaloo, but also inspired me to get my stuff together and get this new chapter out there ASAP, so thank you all - and much love to Fyumi Hawk, who has decided to take on the challenge of being the barrier between my brain and your eyes. I look forward to working with her as a Beta, and cannot wait to see what she brings to the table!**

**Seasons Greetings to you all!**

**Zanchev.**

**AN 2-**

**After a couple of comments I have added scene breaks. Apologies for any confusion and/or irritation at the original publication.**

**Also huge thanks to Lovina Luna Rossi- Romasdottir, romulus-wolfee, and Anitajane for reviewing - it's not even been half an hour yet!**

**Much loves and holiday wossnames,**

**Jingle.**

**Z**


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

It took John Watson all of two days to finish moving everything he owned into 221B Baker Street, and most of that was distracting Sherlock so he wouldn't steal anything. Mrs Hudson hovered in the wings with tea and biscuits, half of Scotland Yard came to oggle the habitat of their resident weirdo (under the guise of helping, of course) and even Mycroft popped in to eye the place with well-practised disdain. It wasn't until Sherlock began complaining about not having enough space for his experiments and pulled out a tray of toes from the freezer that the apartment was finally emptied.

John looked around the flat - their flat - properly for the first time since he'd begun hauling boxes. He loved it, absolutely and irrevocably. Everything was perfect; from the two mismatched chairs by the fire to the skull on the mantle, everything was eccentric and odd and just brilliant. John settled into his comfortable armchair, perfectly placed across from Sherlock's wingback, and sighed with contentment. He hadn't felt this at home since he'd graduated secondary school.

Peace and quiet was, unfortunately, as elusive and rare a concept as Sherlock having manners; both statements proven within seconds of each other and with a single sentence.

"John, I'm bored, do something."

John groaned, but looked over at Sherlock in the kitchen. Sherlock hadn't bothered to look up from his collection of smoking beakers, and John had the sneaking suspicion that his flatmate wasn't even aware that he was there.

He wondered at just how quickly Sherlock had taken to expecting John to be around.

"You're literally doing experiments right now, how can you be bored?" John mused, pulling his laptop into his lap and logging into his blog with a few absent-minded clicks. His latest post had been quite a hit, the tale of his and Sherlock's adventure catching the attention of dozens of people. Sherlock let out a whine, and John forced himself to pay attention to the toddler with whom he lived.

"Experiments are boring, I want a case."

"Then go find a case," John rolled his eyes. "Go bother Lestrade until he lets you play with the next homicide or something."

"That'd take too long, I want something _now_," Sherlock's pouting would've been almost endearing if he wasn't being so annoying, John mused even as he turned his attention to his blog once more. He began idling tinkering with his profile, thoroughly ignoring the huffing and sighing coming from the other end of the living room.

John was considering the benefits of changing the background of his blog when his phone began to ring in his pocket. He moved to grab it only to feel Sherlock's hand swipe it from under his fingers. He glared half heartedly at his flatmate, who utterly ignored him as he answered the phone.

"You have reached the phone of John Watson, what do you want?"

"The state of your manners is deplorable, Sherlock," John mumbled, mostly to himself, as he turned back to his blog. He kept an ear on the half of the conversation he could hear, which mostly consisted of Sherlock being a bit of a prick.

"He's busy, I'm bored. What do you want?"

John smothered his amusement in his cup of tea as he listened to Sherlock. It was so refreshing, in a world of decorum, to find someone so utterly uninterested in common decency.

"Unimportant. Who I am doesn't matter, tell me something interesting."

John rolled his eyes and went back to his blog. Maybe a light blue would suit the background better than the deep red he had. The colour was sentimental, of course, but didn't quite fit the content.

"Oh stop flustering and get to the point, you're worse than Anderson. It's almost impressive."

John sighed and looked over, wondering whether he should save whoever was on the other end of the line from his flatmate. Sherlock was balancing his own phone as well as John's, texting and talking all whilst still examining his beakers and bubbling liquids. John had to admire the multi-tasking, even as he moved to intercept. He'd barely taken three steps before the phone was thrust under his nose by an exasperated Sherlock.

"Here, take it. It's boring."

John grinned as he answered the phone, watching as Sherlock lost interest in favour of one of his little experiments that had turned an alarming shade of puce.

"Hello, John Watson speaking."

"About bloody time! Who the hell was that?" The voice at the other end sounded a combination of exasperated and amused, and John laughed.

"Good to hear from you too, Lu. That was Sherlock, my new flatmate."

"Found somewhere to settle then, have you?"

"I think so, yeah," John smiled to himself, keeping half an eye on the smoking and sizzling concoction Sherlock was throwing more ingredients into with a manic enthusiasm. "This may be my little niche."

"Finally," a soft sigh heaved over the phone line. "It's been too long, and too violent. I was worried."

"It's been, what, ten years?"

"And the rest," John laughed at the indignant huff. "I hope it works out for you, I really do."

"I think it will, Lu," John answered, moving away from the beaker that seemed to be warping with every new powder Sherlock tossed inside. "I have a good feeling about this one."

"I'm glad for you, you deserve a little peace and quiet."

"Uh huh, yeah, could you hold on a sec?" John lunged forward and snatched Sherlock's arm. "I think my kitchen's about to explode."

John tugged Sherlock with him into the lounge room and tucked the both of them behind his armchair just as the puce beaker finally gave way. An explosion rocked the flat, and John saw solid pieces of coloured foam sail past their protection. Sherlock popped his head over the top of the chair and grinned.

"Excellent! I must remember that," he muttered, already clambering over the chair and back into the kitchen. "John, remember that!"

"Will do," John chuckled, settling himself back in his chair once he'd made sure the foam wasn't going to burn through the floor or something. He put the phone back to his ear. "I'm back."

"Was that really an explosion?"

"... Maybe?" John laughed at the world-weary sigh he received.

"Only you, John, only you."

"You love me for it, really," John teased. His attention was caught by Sherlock, who had dropped his experimenting to race for his bedroom. A few thuds sounded, before he was back, looking ready to leave the flat.

"And you're damn lucky I do," Lu's voice dragged John's attention back to the phone. He laughed even as he stood and moved to get his wallet and keys.

"Listen, I think I'm going to have to -"

"John! We're leaving, get your coat," Sherlock announced, head bent over his phone. "Wait, no, that will waste time, leave the coat, come on!"

"... go," John laughed, grabbing his jacket and following Sherlock out the door. He locked it quickly and tore down the stairs after his wayward friend.

"Alright, but you're not allowed to drop off the radar, Mister."

"I would never!" John leapt into the cab just before Sherlock had finished his instructions to the driver, and buckled himself in one-handed. "I'll keep in touch, I promise."

"You'd better. I'll speak to you later, John."

"Bye, Luna."

The call cut off, and John settled back in his seat. He ignored Sherlock's odd look in favour of glancing out the window.

"Where are we going?" he asked. Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Scotland Yard, John. Pay attention."

John nodded in comprehension, watching the buildings flash by. An excited smile spread across his face at the thought of another adventure.

"Is there a case?"

Sherlock turned to him with a grin bordering on feral.

"Even better," he said with unrestrained glee. "There's been a murder."

**AN -**

**Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I am so sorry it took this long!**

**Real life is a bitch and gets in the way of important things.**

**So anyone who's still here - thank you so much you rock and I love you. I have been so awful at updates always so it's really nice to see people still taking an interest.**

**This chapter is pretty much just filler but it will lead to some super fun stuff in the not too distant future - I have stuff written up already so it's hopefully not going to be such a long wait this time (touch wood).**

**All my love to anyone still interested in this story, and I'll see you all on the flip side!**

**Z **


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

D.I. Greg Lestrade cast a weary eye over the crime scene, determinedly focusing on his bustling team instead of the white sheet protecting the corpse from the elements. It lay in the middle of the chaos, an island of silence and failure.

Greg rubbed at his temple, trying to relieve the oncoming headache that always seemed to accompany a murder case. He ran through a mental list of well rehearsed condolence speeches; he knew that he'd have to go notify those left behind before the news got wind of the body's identity.

The last thing he needed was an angry mob of distraught loved ones baying for retribution.

A violent bout of cursing dragged Greg's attention towards Anderson, who was glaring at the taxi that had pulled over. Greg followed Anderson's line of sight and groaned.

Correction: the last thing he needed was Sherlock Bloody Holmes at his crime scene.

Grumbling under his breath, Greg made his way quickly towards the oncoming consulting detective. He lunged forward to stand in front of Holmes and peg him with his best scolding face - the one that actually got his daughters to pay him attention.

He could only hope it would work on Sherlock as well.

"And just what do you think you're doing here, Sherlock?" Greg asked as authoritatively as he could. Sherlock barely spared him a glance, too busy trying to peer at the white sheet Greg was deliberately trying to block.

"I'm doing your job, Lestrade," Sherlock announced. "Do be a sport and move aside."

"Oh no," Greg stood his ground. "You don't need to be here. I specifically did not let you know about this case. How did you even know?"

"Mycroft, obviously," Sherlock rolled his eyes. Greg swore.

Curse the Holmes brothers and their inability to leave well enough alone.

"Doesn't matter," Greg huffed, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Leave, Sherlock. You're not part of this investigation."

"Be reasonable, Lestra-"

"This is me being reasonable," Greg cut him off. "Sherlock, we both know you're good at what you do - I'm not denying that - but there's a reason why I don't ask you to come to murders. People don't like it when other people are killed violently. It makes them sad and frustrated, Sherlock, and you don't understand that. You bounce in all excited about the mystery and forget the bit where someone died. You disrupt and distract my team, so you have to leave. At least until everyone has had time to process and calm down."

Sherlock looked irritated and argumentative, so Greg turned to his companion for help.

"Please, Doctor Watson, just get him out of the way."

Doctor Watson frowned, looking between his wayward flatmate and Greg's harried, pleading look. Greg pulled out the big guns, flashing him the look he used to get his ex-wife to agree with him.

"D.I. Lestrade," Watson began, almost experimentally. "If Mycroft told Sherlock to come here, it must be important."

Greg sighed in resignation.

The look didn't work with his ex much either.

"That said," Watson powered on. "I give you my word as a doctor and a soldier that I will personally keep an eye on Sherlock, and stop him from accidentally mortally offending anyone. Deal?"

Greg figured that was the best he was going to get and shook the good doctor's outstretched hand. Watson gave him a smile and absently grabbed the back of Sherlock's coat, effectively cutting off his escape.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Watson said mildly. Greg grinned.

He reckoned he could get to like Dr Watson.

"Well, I'd best show you around then," Greg hummed thoughtfully. "Get it over with."

Watson agreed and followed Greg through the chaos of the investigation, still gripping the now pouting Sherlock's coat. Greg chuckled to himself at the sound of Sherlock's muttered complaints. Never did he think he'd see Holmes leashed.

"... Bloody Scotland Yard, always getting in the way. Can't even clean themselves up properly after lunch the whole bloody crime scene smells of chilli…"

Greg rolled his eyes at Watson, who grinned.

"What have we got?" Watson asked. Sherlock fell absolutely silent as Greg began to detail the scene.

"Murder, one victim. Male, identification on the body pegs him as a Mister Alfred Beady, thirty seven, married with two kids. Cause of death seems to be some kind of poison, judging by the apparent lack of struggle and burst blood vessels. Other than that, we have nothing on who could be the killer."

"No recent phone calls, notes, late night dealings?" Watson asked as they reached the sheet. Greg shook his head.

"None that we know of yet."

"Alright," Watson nodded to himself and let go of Sherlock. Greg watched as the consulting detective tore around the crime scene, circling it twice in a matter of seconds, muttering to himself all the while.

Watson, on the other hand, was calmly kneeling beside the now uncovered corpse. He gently went about examining the body, barely disturbing what little peace Greg had been able to offer the deceased. Greg couldn't help but feel grateful towards the doctor for the respect he showed.

It was as if Beady were a fallen comrade instead of a stranger.

"John!"

And just like that, the peace was broken.

Watson offered Greg a rueful smile even as he responded to Sherlock. Greg remained silent as the lunatic bounced up to them, very nearly disturbing the body.

If he'd touched the corpse, Greg would've decked him, powerful brother or not.

**.MrH.**

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked as he finished up his examination. He'd never seen the man before, but the symptoms were vaguely familiar. John frowned, trying to think of where he'd seen it before.

"This doesn't make any sense."

John looked up to see Sherlock standing not two feet away, almost touching the deceased. The look on his face was laced with so much confusion the man looked close to tears. John rose in one fluid movement to stand beside his friend, arm out to give comfort and support. He said nothing, content to wait for Sherlock's mouth to catch up to his brain.

"This man is ordinary," Sherlock said before falling back into silence. John took the opportunity to nudge them both away from the epicentre of the crime scene before Sherlock began to pace on top of the corpse. He doubted Lestrade would approve. The D.I. was looking annoyed enough as it was.

"What do you mean, ordinary?" John prompted. Sherlock huffed.

"He's ordinary, boring, mundane," John smiled to himself when Sherlock began to pace. "There's no reason for him to be dead, not like this."

"That's why they say murder is shocking, Sherlock," came Lestrade's sarcastic response.

"Wrong," Sherlock snapped, still pacing. John only felt a little guilty for the death glare he shot at Lestrade.

"This poison is rare. It's not even a poison, really, more a deliberate overdose. There's very few people who know about this mixture, so why waste it on someone ordinary?"

John frowned again. The news that this was an overdose set off little bells in the back of his head. This was all sounding more and more familiar.

"If it's so rare, how do you know about it?" another voice cut into the conversation. John turned to see Donovan sneering at Sherlock, arms crossed defensively over her chest. Sherlock ignored her, still pacing, and she scoffed.

"Convenient that he just happens to know this super rare poison," she drawled. "Enough to know it was too much, even."

"Donovan…" Lestrade's voice was low, oozing warning. John scowled. What did this lady have against Sherlock?

"No, Greg," she was saying. "I've said it before and I'll say it again. That mad man is dangerous. Listen to him rabbiting on about rare poisons. Who even knows about this kind of stuff?"

"Excuse me," John interrupted, smiling politely in the face of Donovan's scowl. "I'm familiar with this mixture as well. It's not so much a poison as a home remedy gone awry."

And it was. John had finally pieced together the markings and the faint smell of chilli spice. It was all indicative of a lethal overdose of Pepper-Up Potion. John felt his smile widen at the satisfaction of figuring out the cause of death. Donovan looked mutinous.

"It's quite popular amongst some of the smaller villages in the north, near Scotland," John continued, watching as Sherlock froze in place to stare at him. "But not many outside that community know of it, much less know how to make it."

"Then why is someone overdosing in London?" Lestrade asked.

"Exactly," Sherlock clapped twice. "Well done, Lestrade. You've finally asked a good question. Don't let it go to your head."

John smothered an amused snort behind his hand. Sherlock continued, ignoring him carefully.

"Like I said, this man is mundane, so why would someone want him dead?"

John paused. That was the second time Sherlock had said 'mundane'. Knowing of a potion, he could understand. Sherlock knew the most obscure things, him finding an old book of household potions wasn't beyond the realm of probability, at least not with Holmes' involved.

But knowing Beady was a muggle? That was a bit too far of a stretch.

Did Sherlock know about wizards?

Was he one himself?

**AN -**

**Hey hey, all!**

**Another chapter for all my lovely little readers. You guys give me so much love, you have no idea how amazing it is to see so many people enjoying what I write. I love reading your theories and ideas so much, thank you all.**

**So! New case, new fun, new magic.**

**We're getting super close to the long awaited big reveal. On both sides :)**

**I am super excited to see how people feel about the next few chapters. Once this case is done we'll be moving along back into Sherlock canon for a little while, and exploring some more fun things from the wizarding world as well. This is very much an open ended story, with many possibilities, and I can't wait.**

**Thanks again to you all for all the love. Please never hesitate to tell me your ideas and theories and critiques, I love hearing from you guys and anything may spark some inspiration.**

**Much love to you all, see you on the flip side!**

**Z**


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